


Practicality

by sheepishwolfy



Series: Beasts in Fields of Flowers [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Brief Discussion of Homophobia, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, first time bedsharing, totally platonic spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:28:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29455278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepishwolfy/pseuds/sheepishwolfy
Summary: When a grievously injured Geralt stumbles into the inn, the absolute last person he wants to see is the little shit who wrote Toss a Coin. Unfortunately for him, the little shit is the only one brave (or stupid) enough to help.Or, there's a first time for everything.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Beasts in Fields of Flowers [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001310
Comments: 13
Kudos: 153
Collections: Best Geralt





	Practicality

**Author's Note:**

> takes place very early in the Bloody Bard canon. you don't have to read the other fics in this series first, but i'd appreciate it if you did anyway :)

Jaskier sat beneath an open window, chin in hand, midsummer breezes stirring his hair. He told himself he was writing, but so far the process consisted entirely of idly tapping the feathered end of his quill against the page while he stared wistfully at the fields beyond the inn. Sometimes he set the pen down to pick at the wooden plate at his elbow, the long-since-cooled remains of his lunch. All told, in the last several hours, he’d written approximately six words, three of which he despised.

His focus wasn’t in it. In fact he’d never intended to write at all, merely pause for food before continuing straight on to Oxenfurt. But idle gossip with the innkeep had proven far more interesting than anticipated: a white-haired witcher had stayed the previous night, and gone into the woods that morning.

So here he was, not-writing, and waiting around to see if it was the White Wolf. It had been a while since they’d seen each other, and so Jaskier didn’t mind delaying his university arrival by another day. Geralt wasn’t always _great_ company, but he was always _interesting_ company, and that beat out academic paperwork any day.

Besides, he simply had to know if the song was actually earning the witcher any extra coins.

As if summoned by Jaskier’s drifting thoughts, the inn door creaked open to admit the man himself. Muddy, a little blood splattered, and scowling fiercely, but that was just the usual post-hunt Geralt. In Jaskier’s brief experience, that was the usual Geralt, full stop.

 _Un_ usually, the witcher didn’t survey the room when he entered. He stalked directly for the bar, and Jaskier noticed he favored his left leg—just a little. Likely no one else would have noticed (or cared all that much), but Jaskier took a profound sense of pride in his observation skills. Especially when it came to this particular witcher.

Jaskier sprang to his feet, trailing in the wolf’s footsteps towards the counter. Leaning both hands heavily on the bartop, Geralt grumbled a sharp “ _beer_ ” at the barkeep, who quailed and hurried off to oblige. He was in fine form, today.

Sidling up to the counter, Jaskier rested an elbow on the wood. He propped his chin on his fist and said brightly, “Fancy meeting you here, wolf.”

Geralt glanced just aside, and then dipped his chin to his chest, expelling a low, rumbling sigh. “Jaskier,” he said gruffly. He’d never exactly leapt for joy when they ran into each other, but this seemed particularly displeased.

The barkeep returned, setting a large clay mug in front of the witcher without making eye contact. Just as quickly he scuttled away again, to busy himself with another patron.

“Hunt go poorly?” Jaskier asked, as Geralt picked up the mug and began to drink.

And drink.

And keep drinking, only lowering the mug when it was as empty as the day it was fired. Geralt set it heavily on the bar, and signaled wordlessly for another.

“Well,” Jaskier said, as Geralt downed a second gallon of strong northern ale. “Very poorly, then, I take it.”

“Hunt went fine,” Geralt rumbled.

“Oh, fantastic!” Jaskier said cheerily. “Join me for lunch? I’d love to hear the whole story.”

Geralt, in a display that was spectacularly antisocial even for him, growled a sharp _no_ and simply walked away. _Limped_ away; he was absolutely favoring his left leg, and beyond that holding his entire body taut. Jaskier’s cheer was suddenly shot through with genuine concern. He hurried after the retreating wolf, following him down the hall towards the lower-level private rooms.

“Now, hold on a moment.” Jaskier reached out to put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder, slow his escape. “Do you—”

Soon as Jaskier’s hand made contact, just beneath the edge of a leather spaulder, Geralt hissed and shied away. A sharp sound, barely human, the snapping of a wounded beast. Truly wounded; his armor was wet beneath Jaskier’s fingers.

“Geralt,” Jaskier murmured, looking up from his red-stained palm. He hadn’t noticed against the black leather, but Geralt’s left side was sheeted with blood. 

The look the witcher gave him was feral. A caged animal. Slitted pupils blown to black circles that hid his irises. He turned his left side away, protecting it, as though _Jaskier_ might pose a threat.

“It’s fine,” Geralt said, barely controlled, nearly a snarl.

“Yes, I can see that,” Jaskier said, unflinching. He held up his bloodied palm. “Nothing wrong here.”

“ _Fuck off_ ,” Geralt snapped, giving in to the beast lurking behind his words. 

“Absolutely not,” Jaskier snapped back. Then, gentler, “You need help. I can go—”

“No.” Backing away, still cagey, still favoring his left side, Geralt groped at the wall behind himself. He found the door to his room, and shoved it open. “Go away, bard, I don’t need any fucking help.”

He tried to slam the door, but Jaskier proved startlingly spry. He darted into the doorway, and only witcher-fast reflexes kept him from getting his face smashed. Jaskier hardly reacted at all to the edge of the door stopping just shy of his nose. 

“If you think I’m going to let you sit in here and bleed to death, you’re sorely mistaken,” Jaskier said, leaning casually against the doorjamb. “At least let me fetch you a healer. There’s got to be a mage or a wise woman or something lurking about a town this size.”

“Jaskier—”

“Yes, I know,” Jaskier interrupted. He pitched his voice low and gruff. “ _Fuck off_. Think you’re going to scare me off with the snarling lone wolf bit? Hasn’t worked yet, it won’t start now.”

Geralt stared at him for a long time, held to his full menacing height, gripping the edge of the door so tightly his leather gloves creaked. Jaskier stared back, placid and unafraid. For some reason, the bard had _never_ feared him. Even now, seeing Geralt at his objective worst, Jaskier only smelled of ink and paper, dried fruit and summer breeze and something vaguely floral.

Blood seeped down the side of his gambeson, dripping from the bottom edge of it. The room was so silent Geralt heard the droplet strike the worn floorboards. He was too tired, and too sore, and had lost too much blood to put up much more of a fight. The fucking kid would just circle behind the building and climb in the window, anyway.

“No healers,” he mumbled, exhaustion filing away his angry edges. Letting go of the door, he turned and stalked deeper into the little room.

“Are you very certain?” Jaskier asked, shutting the door softly behind him.

Geralt made a vaguely assenting noise, focused on unstrapping his swords. “They don’t know what to do with witchers,” he said, once the buckle was undone. He nearly dropped the weapons as he unshouldered them.

Next he stripped off his gloves, dropping them in a wet heap at his feet. His entire left hand was red, wrist to fingertips, streaked with blood that had run down his arm and pooled in the glove. Jaskier approached slowly, carefully, trying to find the source of it. There were no readily obvious gashes in the armor, no gaping holes with a view to internal organs.

Circling in front of Geralt, Jaskier leaned back against the wall and watched the witcher remove the rest of his armor. Attempt to, anyway. Geralt bared his teeth in a silent snarl, brow furrowing as he tried to undo his spaulder. 

“Let me,” Jaskier said gently, stepping forward. Again Geralt flinched away from his hands, a quick motion that clearly pained him.

“I can—”

“You very obviously can’t, you stubborn fucking fool,” Jaskier said. “What do you suppose is going to happen? I abscond with your filthy, ancient armor? I take advantage of your weakness to steal the eight crowns from your purse?”

“I’ve got at least fifteen in there,” Geralt mumbled, still leaning away.

“Well, in that case, sleep with one eye open,” Jaskier laughed. He reached out again, gently tugging at the buckles that held Geralt’s spaulders to his chest. “Now, will you just let me assist you?”

Despite very clear displeasure, Geralt gave in. His deepest instincts screamed that this was a terrible idea, that instructing a stranger in the exact manner with which to disarm a witcher would be dangerous not only for him, but for his brothers. His surface-level brain was too oxygen deprived to give much of a shit. Jaskier was irritating, but harmless, and even half dead Geralt was pretty sure he could snap the bard in half like a peppy little twig. 

And anyway, Jaskier wasn’t a stranger. He was—he was just Jaskier. 

Soon enough the bard stood behind Geralt, carefully peeling his gambeson back from his shoulders. The inside of it was slick with blood, the shirt beneath soaked through and torn. Geralt heard the sharp little inhale when the bard saw the wound: a long gouge traveling from just left of his lower back all the way to his armpit, ragged and bleeding sluggishly.

“Oh, wolf. What happened to you?” Jaskier asked, and there was such raw concern in his voice that Geralt nearly flinched again.

“Fiend,” he said, hoarse, dimly glad Jaskier couldn’t see his face. Tender hands tugged at the hem of his ruined shirt, knuckles brushing against Geralt’s ribs as Jaskier carefully lifted the shirt over his head.

“I’d say so,” Jaskier said, tossing the bloody shirt aside with the rest of the discarded clothing. It was even worse than what he had glimpsed through the torn shirt. Geralt’s entire left side was a livid web of bruising, flesh marred purple-black from hip to shoulder. Probably down his leg beneath his pants as well, if Jaskier had to hazard a guess. “Anything that could do this to you is certainly fiendish.”

“No, it… a fiend is a type of monster. Like a chort,” Geralt said, barely managing not to wince when cool fingers touched his shoulder blade. He wished he still had his shirt on, shredded though it was—wished he’d pushed Jaskier into the hall and locked the door. Easier to suffer the wounds alone than bear this tenderness.

“And how did it manage to stab you _beneath_ your armor?” Jaskier asked. He didn’t remove his hand, fingers steady on Geralt’s shoulder as he crossed in front again. Urging the witcher backwards, towards the bed, he murmured, “Come on, before you collapse.”

“Lucky shot,” Geralt said, half-falling to sit at the foot of the mattress. “Charged me from behind, got a horn under my armor. Threw me off a cliff.”

“Off a _cliff_?”

“A small one,” Geralt said, shrugging—wincing, as the motion pulled at… everything in his abused body.

“No wonder you look like you… well. Like you fell off a cliff.” Jaskier’s eyes were even softer than his hands, sweeping down Geralt’s equally battered front. Tracing not only the new wounds but the old, the poorly-healed scars that littered his flesh.

Geralt looked away, towards the window. Nudity had never troubled him, a body was a body, but something in Jaskier’s expression made him feel exposed in ways he never had. As if the bard didn’t look at him but into him, seeing things Geralt would prefer to keep hidden away, reading too much into what were only scars.

“I have it from here,” Geralt said, more annoyed than he meant. Kindness smothered him. “Go back to your lunch.”

“My lunch was disappointing anyway,” Jaskier said, waving a hand. “At least let’s get that cleaned up, hm? Who knows what manner of infection you could get from something called a _fiend_.”

“I said, I can handle it,” Geralt insisted, turning another fierce look on the bard.

“Even on your best days, you couldn’t see your own spine,” Jaskier snorted. “Unless witchers can turn their head around like owls. Oh, wouldn’t that be useful? But then I suppose you would’ve seen the fiend behind you.”

Geralt wanted desperately to protest, to be left alone to metaphorically lick his wounds and shoulder his own pain. But the adrenaline of the hunt, the residual anger at being laid flat by a monster he should’ve easily dispatched, the annoyance at Jaskier’s unrelenting enthusiasm… all of it was rapidly fading beneath pain and fatigue. He wanted to protest, and instead simply remained silent.

“Think you can get your own boots off?” Jaskier asked softly.

“Yes,” Geralt said, starting to lean down. His ribs, it turned out, were cracked, a fact he discovered as they ground painfully against one another. Straightening, he mumbled a defeated, “No.”

Jaskier remained blessedly silent as he knelt down and tugged off Geralt’s boots. He set them aside, and smiled brightly up at the dour witcher. Nothing, it seemed, was capable of dimming his cheer for very long. Not even wet witcher sock feet.

“I’ll let you decide what to do with your pants,” he said, standing. “I’ll be back in just a moment. I left my things in the common room and while thieves are welcome to most of my belongings, my lute is there and I’d simply expire if someone ran off with it. See if I can’t turn up something to clean and bandage you with, as well.”

Geralt only hummed his acknowledgement, and Jaskier took off, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The witcher debated locking it so Jaskier couldn’t get back in, and just as quickly decided against it. If nothing else, he’d been correct: Geralt couldn’t see his own spine to dress the wound.

He then debated whether to strip off his pants, unsure how he felt about being entirely naked in front of Jaskier. Vulnerable enough to be seen injured, let alone nude. Nevermind that Jaskier flirted with him shamelessly, and almost constantly smelled faintly of arousal—not that he expected the kid to take any kind of advantage. He just didn’t want to fucking deal with it, right now.

But then, on the other hand, his pants were caked in blood and dirt, stiff and itchy. The waistband scraped uncomfortably against the lower edge of the gash across his back. And, so far, Jaskier had kept a tight lid on himself. Before he could spiral into thinking too hard, Geralt discarded his pants and collapsed face-down on the mattress.

Linen-covered straw had never been so welcoming.

Geralt dozed, or perhaps simply passed out from the blood loss. Either way, he was roused by a weight settling on the bed at his hip, a hand laying softly on his uninjured right shoulder.

“Go back to sleep, if you want. I just didn’t want to startle you,” Jaskier said softly. His thumb brushed absently over a ridge of scar tissue, an idle little affection that he likely didn’t even realize he was doing. It was nice. 

Geralt mumbled something incomprehensible into the pillow. Cracking an eye open, he found Jaskier in just his chemise, the sleeves pushed up past his elbows. The smell of soap and clean water clung to him. There must've been a washbasin nearby.

“Before you drift off again, though, is there anything I can get you?” Jaskier asked. “You witchers with your potions and salves and whatnot, I don’t suppose there’s something you have that could help.”

Unsure he had the capacity to explain anything, Geralt lifted a heavy arm and pointed at the saddlebag in the corner. “Bring that closer.”

Jaskier did as asked, hauling the bag over and setting it next to the bed. Without looking, Geralt thrust his hand into the depths of the bag to root around by touch alone. Sifting through the contents, he eventually produced a small earthenware jar. “This,” he mumbled, handing it off to Jaskier before dropping his arm again.

Jaskier removed the lid, squinted at the thick salve within. It smelled vaguely herby.

“Don’t taste it,” Geralt said, half-muffled by the covers. “Might kill you.”

“And you want me to smear it on your _open wound_?” Jaskier said, stricken. 

“Witcher,” Geralt replied, gesturing vaguely to his own face.

Unsurprisingly at this point, Jaskier was incredibly gentle as he wiped away the blood and grime from Geralt’s back. Mindful of not pressing too hard against the bruising, not pulling at the edges of the cut. Diligent, touching only where he needed to. He hummed softly as he worked, and rather than annoying Geralt found it… soothing. Distracting from the sting of soap against raw skin, the ache in his side that persisted despite Jaskier’s careful attention. 

He drifted off again, lulled down by the simple, non-threatening presence of another person. It had been an age since he’d allowed someone else to put him back together, and in his weary state thought maybe this was something to be rectified.

Then the burn of the salve startled him back to consciousness, as Jaskier began dabbing it into the wound. Geralt tensed and hissed an elaborate curse.

“Sorry,” Jaskier murmured, but didn't cease.

“It’ll numb in a minute,” Geralt said, through gritted teeth. And it did, the sting fading to a distant thrum as the salve did its work.

Jaskier worked as quickly as he could, while remaining thorough. Whatever was in the salve started to numb his fingertips as well, which seemed like it could be bad. Would it leech through his skin and poison him? Surly Geralt wouldn’t have attempted to secretly kill him. Still, when he finished, he very thoroughly rinsed his hands in the basin. Witchers put all manner of heinous monster bits in their potions, Jaskier wasn’t about to risk accidentally touching his eye with drowner spit residue on his fingers.

“You’ll have to sit up for this next bit,” Jaskier said, apologetic. “Can’t very well wind a bandage around you while you’re lying down.”

Slowly, groaning with the effort, Geralt levered up onto his hands, then twisted til he was sitting and facing Jaskier. He watched the bard wrap clean cloth bandages around his middle, and was surprised at how… clinical Jaskier was. For one so full of flirtations and forwardness that he’d burst if forced to remain silent for more than five minutes, Jaskier hadn’t made a single remark about Geralt’s nakedness. Or anything else about him—hadn’t asked for scar stories, or even mentioned that his hair was getting long. He was calm, and comforting, and so, so un-Jaskier.

“Why are you doing this?” Geralt asked, eyes on Jaskier’s hands.

“So you don’t bleed all over the bed and have to pay the innkeep for the mattress,” Jaskier replied. He leaned in for a moment to pass the bandage behind Geralt’s back, close enough for the witcher to identify the _something floral_ in Jaskier’s scent. Rosewater.

“Not just the bandages,” Geralt said, suddenly feeling vaguely nervous. “All of it. Why do any of it? What do you want?”

“What do I—Geralt,” Jaskier said, laughing as though that was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “Is it not simply enough that I don’t wish to see my friend in pain? Must I _want_ something from it?”

“That’s usually how it goes, yes,” Geralt said, shrugging.

Jaskier’s hands stilled, and he sat back, looking at Geralt with some odd mix of confusion and… and sadness. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s rather revealing. And tragic.”

Frowning, Geralt said, “That’s how things are. Someone renders you a service, they require payment. So I assume you’re going to want something in return for this.”

“I’m not _rendering you a service_ ,” Jaskier scoffed, now genuinely offended. “Despite what you seem to think, I care about your well being for its own sake.”

He returned to bandaging, but his movements were clipped, irritated. Geralt felt like he should apologize, but also felt as though that would make it worse. He managed a simple, “Oh.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Jaskier mimicked. “Tell me, White Wolf, have you ever in your very long life trusted another person?”

Geralt considered letting the moment slip by, giving Jaskier only a noncommittal grunt. The bard would probably leave him in peace at that point, let him sleep unbothered.

And yet, he found he didn’t really want that. So he opened his mouth, and instead of a non-answer, what came out was, “Yes. My brothers.”

Jaskier was quiet for a moment, but the irritation seeped away from his shoulders. His brow unfurrowed. “You have brothers?” he asked, glancing up.

“Two,” Geralt said. This was personal and vulnerable and, apparently, the correct answer, as Jaskier’s demeanor lightened. “Eskel and Lambert. And Vesemir… though he’s more like, hm. A father.”

“I didn’t know witchers had families,” Jaskier said. “It seems a solitary profession.”

“We aren’t blood related. Eskel and I were…” Geralt hesitated. It would be _too_ much, right now, to bring up the Grasses and Kaer Morhen, even vaguely. He settled on, “We were trained together. Lambert is younger. Vesemir is older. Much older.”

“But you’re close?” 

“In a manner,” Geralt said. _We’re the last_ , he thought. “Do you?” he asked, desperate to shift the conversation before Jaskier could pry further. The bard was too clever by half, and Geralt was weak.

“Do I… what?” Jaskier asked.

“Have siblings?”

“A handful, yes,” Jaskier said. He wound the bandage twice over Geralt’s shoulder, and began to fasten it in place. “I’m smack in the middle. Makes it easy to be the wastrel son, they hardly notice if I don’t show up to Saovine or Yule. And, honestly, I prefer it that way.”

He said it so lightly, but there was a flicker of something dark in his eyes as he spoke. Something sad, beneath the sunny exterior. 

“You aren’t close to your family,” Geralt said.

“I have a sister who’s alright,” Jaskier shrugs. “But largely… no. Which is fine. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that blood ties mean nothing and the family you find is often better suited than the one you’re born to.”

“Awfully sage advice from someone who’s, what… nineteen?” Geralt chided, but not unkindly. 

“Twenty, thank you,” Jaskier sniffed. “I’ve just had a birthday.”

“Twenty, of course. You’ve had time to find an entire family?” 

“ _In a manner_ ,” Jaskier parroted back. “Perhaps family is a strong word, but let me tell you, witcher, within a week of getting to Oxenfurt I had more meaningful conversation with classmates than I’d had in seventeen years at home. Hell, I’ve had more meaningful conversations with _you_ than my entire family combined, and you barely string ten words together at a stretch.”

“Not much need for conversation on the Path,” Geralt said, once again making the mistake of shrugging. Bruised muscles screamed almost audibly at the unwelcome motion.

“Yes, I can tell,” Jaskier said. He eyed the miserable slump of Geralt’s spine, the downward curl of his lips. “You should lie back down. Sleep some, maybe. I can bring you dinner later, if you’d like.”

“Hm. Maybe.”

“Well, I’ll bring it, and if you’re awake, you can eat it,” Jaskier said. He stood, plucking his doublet off the end of the bed. “For now, the innkeep offered me free beer and ten crowns an evening to perform for his patrons the next few days. As long as, he said, I don’t play anything ‘too southern,’ whatever that means. Don’t have a terribly large repertoire of Nilfgaardian ballads, so I imagine it won’t be an issue. So! I’m off to sing for my supper. And yours. Ah, and I suppose talk to him about my own accommodations, since I realize I forgot to do that. I fear I shall end up sleeping behind the bar.”

Geralt watched Jaskier flit about the room like a hummingbird, buttoning his jacket and taking up his lute, talking half to himself the entire time. “You can share mine,” he said, when there was a dip in Jaskier’s stream of consciousness.

“Share your what?” Jaskier asked absently, tugging on one of his boots.

“Room.”

Jaskier stood there, one boot on, glancing curiously around the room. “Ah, well. I suppose the floor in here is as good as the floor anywhere else. And cheaper.”

“Why would you sleep on the floor?” Geralt asked, perplexed.

“I know you can count,” Jaskier replied. “One bed, two men.”

“It’s a big bed.”

“You would… let me sleep in the bed.” 

Geralt, the gears of his brain finally catching, sketched a shrug with his _good_ shoulder. “Yes. Why? Should I not? Do you thrash in your sleep?”

Jaskier still stood there, blinking for a bit, unsure. “You don’t… are you sure you’re alright with it? Sharing a bed?”

“Why would I have an opinion? I’ll be asleep,” Geralt replied.

“Some people are—I mean, there are some for whom that might be uncomfortable, sleeping with another man—not _sleeping with_ , but, you know, beside—” Jaskier stammered. His fingers twisted together in an anxious little knot at his waist, and he looked everywhere but directly at the witcher. It was the first time Geralt had ever seen him at a genuine loss for words. 

It was… endearing. And then it was a little sad, as this was clearly not a new fear for the very, very young bard.

“It’s not uncomfortable for me,” Geralt said, gently as he could. He was very, very old, and had no time for human prejudices. “It’s practical.”

“Right. Yes. Practical.” Jaskier shifted his weight from foot to foot, smoothed his hands down the front of his doublet, and very visibly collected himself. “Thank you. I… thank you. I’m just going to… go. I’ll be back.”

“Can you do me a favor?” Geralt asked, as Jaskier turned to leave.

“I can do my level best,” Jaskier said, pausing at the exit.

“Bring me clean pants? There’s some in one of the bags.”

Jaskier obliged, retrieving clean trousers and very politely not looking as he helped the witcher into them. Despite being bare as a babe this was, Geralt mused, the longest stretch of time he’d spent in Jaskier’s presence without being hit on by a teenager. 

Well.

Not a teenager anymore.

He slept like he was dead. When he woke it was dark, but someone had lit the wall sconce over the bet. There was food on the nightstand, bread and fruit and cheese, nothing that needed to stay hot. Geralt lurched towards it, so acutely ravenous he hardly noticed the ache in his side. 

Halfway through a meal that in his haste Geralt barely tasted, he went very still. The food, the lit candles—his gear was not haphazardly strewn across the floor, but stacked neatly. His swords were propped up in the corner.

Someone had come and gone while he slept, without his knowledge. Alarm pricked up the back of his neck, and he tipped his head back, scenting the air for a trace of who’d been creeping around. Closed his eyes and listened, in case they were still there, waiting.

Only the usual inn sounds and smells. Beer, people, road-dust, woodsmoke. Distantly, horses. The low hum of conversation, underscored by music. A song he didn’t know, but still seemed familiar.

Closer, the fading scent of his own blood. Chamomile, celandine, and white gull, the salve beneath his bandages. Old sweat, from whoever had rented this bed before him. Beneath that, something floral. Something…

Rosewater.

Jaskier.

Geralt slumped back against the headboard. Not an assassin, or an enterprising thief, or even just a regular bigot taking advantage of a weakened witcher. Simply an irritating little bard stuffed so full of optimism and kindness it was a wonder he didn’t float an inch off the ground.

Perhaps Geralt needed to amend _irritating_ off of his chosen descriptors for Jaskier. It was uncharitable, when the boy had only just saved Geralt from a miserable evening of blood and poor sleep. Jaskier was just young, and didn’t know any better. With luck he’d be allowed to stay that way, writing silly songs and finding family in every passing-friendly stranger who crossed his path.

He didn’t go back to sleep, once he finished off his humble dinner. He considered going out to the common room in search of more food, maybe something stronger than water, but very quickly reconsidered when he tried to stand. Everything ached—everything _hurt._ Lying still had let his muscles stiffen, and now three steps across the room to his saddlebags felt insurmountable.

He managed to get there and back, leaning heavily on the bed and the wall as he went. There was a brief moment in the middle where he debated just lying on the floor and staying there, but decided against it. Jaskier would never be able to lift him back into the bed, and there was no chance the bard would simply leave him there. 

The rest of the evening Geralt sat propped against the headboard, methodically recording the hunt in his journal. It was nearly full. By winter, he’d need a new one, and this account could be filed away in the archives of Kaer Morhen. It was a shame such things needed to remain secret—Geralt suspected the kid would get a kick out of knowing _the bard Jaskier_ made a handful of appearances in the running history of witchers. 

The bard Jaskier made an appearance somewhere near midnight. He entered very quietly, holding the knob and the edge of the door in both hands in an effort to open it without creaking. Geralt, half-sunk into the covers but still awake, watched him move with exaggerated sneakiness. Only opening the door as far as he needed to slip through, placing his feet with great care to avoid creaky floorboards. He even seemed to be holding his breath.

Geralt waited for the door to shut before asking, “Why so quiet?”

Jaskier squealed, leaping approximately eight feet straight into the air in shock. Spinning around, clutching his chest with one hand, he demanded, “Have you been awake this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t feel like saying something sooner before I made a creeping fool of myself?” Setting his lute gently by the door, Jaskier began to unbutton his doublet. 

“You were doing an admirable job,” Geralt said, smiling toothily. 

“ _I_ have care for other people’s well-being,” Jaskier said loftily. “I didn’t want to disturb you, you were positively dead to the world when I came through earlier.”

“Appreciated,” Geralt murmured. 

As he readied for bed, Jaskier talked idly. He was, Geralt suspected, very mildly drunk, which only made him chattier—and less inclined to require response. In just a few minutes, Geralt knew everything there was to know about the evening: the innkeeper’s wife was a good cook, a farmer gave him an extra few coppers to play a very old shanty, a very fat black and white cat knocked his beer off the counter, but that was alright, because he butted his chubby face against Jaskier’s leg and purred like an avalanche. 

The wall of words only ceased when Jaskier, stripped to his chemise and braeis, stopped at the edge of the bed. 

“Um,” Jaskier said, very eloquently. Geralt could hear his heartbeat stutter upwards, once again anxious.

“Good night, Jaskier,” said the witcher, rolling onto his good side and tugging the covers up over his shoulder. If he didn’t acknowledge it, maybe the bard’s nerves would settle themselves.

He felt the mattress dip as Jaskier sat gingerly at the edge of it. The blankets pulled as he lay atop them, stiff as a board.

“You’re going to get cold,” Geralt said, without looking back.

“It’s summer! I’m fine,” Jaskier replied, with a nervous little chuckle.

“Doesn’t matter, this far north,” Geralt replied. 

“Really, I don’t mind, and I don’t want to bother—“

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, and rolled onto his back. This was a mistake, but one too late to correct as his wounds complained. “I am unbothered. _You_ seem to be.”

“I’m not!” Jaskier said, and then covered his face with his hands and groaned. “I don’t—I just—augh. You know, it’s... I sometimes prefer to, er…”

“Fuck men.”

Jaskier audibly swallowed. “That, yes, though perhaps I wouldn’t put so fine a point on it—ah, anyway, that has proven to be… an issue. Occasionally.”

“Are you going to try to fuck me in my sleep?” Geralt asked.

The bard made a choked-off noise, like a cat with its tail stepped on. “ _What_? No! Of course not!” 

“Then I don’t care. It’s a bed. You need to sleep. Where you choose to stick your cock on your own time has no bearing,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier was quiet, staring at the ceiling through the gloom. Then he said, quietly, “Practical.”

“Practical,” Geralt echoed. He rolled over again, glad to take the weight off his injured side. “Now _good night_.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jaskier wormed his way under the covers. He still kept a careful, measured distance between them, but at least he wouldn’t shiver awake in the middle of the night. “Good night,” he said.

Then, very softly, “Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“Has Toss a Coin earned you any, you know. Coins? Do people flick them at you in the street? Do they call you White Wolf?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Geralt muttered. 

A period of silence followed, during which Geralt thought Jaskier had finally fallen asleep. Until he said, “Ah, shit, forgot to blow out the candle.”

“Got it,” Geralt mumbled, and drew a weak igni in the air. The candle sputtered out in a mist of little sparks.

Jaskier blinked into the sudden darkness, and then sat bolt upright. “You can do _magic_?”

The witcher expelled a long, weary sigh. “Go the fuck to sleep or I _will_ kick you onto the floor.”

Settling back down, Jaskier tugged the covers up and murmured, “Why am I always busking when you can do magic tricks? Unbelievable.”

Once he finally quit talking, Jaskier went out faster than the candle. Geralt was nearly down himself when the bed shifted, and the bard pressed up against his spine. The witcher squinted at the far wall, wondering if the entire anxious-kid bit had been an act and now Jaskier was making an odd, deeply misguided choice.

Geralt dismissed the idea immediately, as Jaskier went still again. His breathing was deep and even, his heartbeat slow. Lifting his head a little, Geralt peeked back. In the dim glow of the moon, he could just make out Jaskier curled in on himself, forehead pressed between Geralt’s shoulder blades. Asleep, he looked even younger. Puppy fat still rounded his cheeks.

Sighing, Geralt lay his head back upon the flat pillow. No need to push the poor kid away. He only sought warmth and kindness, and for some reason thought the witcher could provide. He couldn’t, but it cost him nothing to allow Jaskier this much. The world would harden him soon enough.

It was their longest stretch of time together since Posada. Usually they would encounter one another, spend an afternoon (or, perhaps more accurately, Jaskier would hound him for an afternoon), and then they'd go their separate ways. This time they remained another two days, Jaskier playing for their keep and Geralt convalescing. Every morning dawned with Jaskier cocooned in the covers, only a tuft of brown hair and skinny legs sticking out either side. He apologized each time, and yet the cycle repeated. Every night he slept huddled up to the witcher, and they simply didn't talk about it.

On the third day, Geralt only struggled a little to saddle his horse. Despite Jaskier’s insistence he could still make it, and he didn’t mind lingering to be absolutely certain Geralt was in fighting form, Oxenfurt was at least a week's journey south. Jaskier was going to be late for his courses, and Geralt felt no desire to be the cause for his continued absence.

If the witcher happened to be heading the same direction for a while, well, that was convenient. They could travel together, and split the cost of lodgings. Cheaper still if they only needed one pallet. 

It was only practical.

**Author's Note:**

> in the immortal words of gen, in whose DMs this was originally written:
> 
> Jaskier: some ppl are... homophobic  
> Geralt, a gay: what’s a homophobic?
> 
> anyway thank you all for reading, please enjoy these idiots who take a further 20 years to get their shit together.


End file.
